Unnamed Road: Notes from Denmark

Part I 

Waiting for the ferry to Aarhus from Odden.

On August 31, I began my extended European travels and made my way to Denmark. I’ve gotten used to succinctly explaining my connection to the country, so here goes: my late dad was Danish and Dutch by heritage. He and my late mom fell in love with Danish culture as a young couple when they had the opportunity to live in the suburbs of Copenhagen in the early eighties. Throughout my life, my mom always reflected with reverie on aspects of Danish culture, but especially on the fact that after giving birth to my oldest brother at Gentofte Hospital, she was given a dark Tuborg beer to revive her from the labor. Can you imagine? Though my parents lived for over twenty years in Italy, Belgium, and the U.K. as well, my brothers, sister and I grew up with their especially warm associations with Denmark looming large. I had previously traveled to the country twice as a kid, and now, this trip marks my fifth visit. 

I rented a car at Kastrup Airport, and first planned to stop off at my cousin and godfather’s apartment for a short stay before making my way across the country to the northern tip of Jutland, the peninsula of Denmark that is contiguous with Germany. My destination would be the town of Aalbaeck, close to the northernmost point where the Baltic and North Seas meet. I understood this little berg to be the place from where my last name and family comes from, long, long ago. 

I didn’t know much about the place, except that it was a tiny fishing village, and that there was a long-running hotel near the sea and not much more for local business and infrastructure. I’d made a reservation at the Aalbeack Badehotel for two nights– just enough time, I thought, to explore the area and to get a taste– before needing to return to Sealand and the Copenhagen area for my godfather’s 75th birthday party in Charlottenlund (at one of the local palaces, no less. This is how you do in Denmark). 

My dad was enamored with Albeck family history. In fact, he would often regale me and my siblings (or, really anyone he was in conversation with), about our lineage and what he considered to be points of pride and interest, like decorated Navy Sea Captains or marriages with Danish nobility.

The door to my cousin and godfather's apartment.

At some point growing up, I’d researched the name "Albeck" and had found somewhere the translation of “tree by the water.” When picturing the place in my mind’s eye, I imagined a stately deep evergreen tree next to a river emblazoned on a banner. Like a wild version of the pine trees from my grandparents’ New Jersey Christmas Tree Farm: fragrant, strong and tall, surrounded by the magic of forest and glen, and drawing water from a vital, flowing stream. My mind loves to make such associations and to design imaginary posters. 

My mind also loves a good drive. Something about the combination of speed, control, the bodily engagement and rushing through space with efficiency really gets me going. Being in motion, but especially driving, helps me to write songs, narratives, poems. It also helps me think. I also adore listening to the radio. I find the roulette of musical accompaniment from local stations to be uniquely spiritually-fulfilling. Is there anything more synchronistic and satisfying than hearing the exact right song to match your mood or circumstance? It makes you know you're in the right place.

But, as it happens, operating a car in a different country with a foreign language is a bit of a brain teaser. I’d familiarized myself with a few relevant Danish words and advice from the Danish government about driving as a foreigner. I came prepared to be on the lookout for the flow of bicyclists that I knew would likely be coming from all directions on city streets and country roads. The rental car company upgraded me to an SUV, though I’d specified a reservation for a compact car. In a sleepy daze of post-transatlantic travel (consisting of two flights, with a stopover and quick plane change in Iceland), I didn’t challenge the change. 

Right off the bat I struggled to pull out of the tight parking spot within the garage. It ended up being an eight point turn, with another star-shaped correction needed moments later after I zoomed off towards the entrance rather than the exit. Already things were different– the scale of parking spaces and one-way roads being only a tiny indication of the contrasts between Denmark and the U.S.  

Happily, the weather that welcomed me as I set off through Copenhagen was unseasonably sunny and warm. Soft sea breezes, bright blue skies, painterly clouds. Danes were out in throngs on the street enjoying life, soaking up the sun after a summer with only intermittent warm and rain-free days. 

After spending a few sunny days catching up with family in Hellerup (and dipping in the nearby sea every chance I got) I hit the road. I first made my way to Odden, and from there, took the ferry across to Aarhus. Once out of the city, things were peaceful and straightforward. I passed through golden green countryside peppered with relaxed-looking brown and white cows. The scene reminded me of Wisconsin, my home of the last fifteen years. Some major differences between the landscapes: rather than clear cut expanse, the farmlands of Denmark are dotted with many more thickets. And the homes and farms standing in view of the highway are classic in their Danish charm– the colors drawn from a select palette of mostly cheddar yellow, or white, red, and black, and outfitted with umber tile roofs, or sometimes even hay. 

The Kwik Trip of Denmark is called K-Circle. This gas station, along with 7-Eleven and other similar chains, is a commodious treat (though I am unsure about their Instagram viral marketing game). There you can use a clean toilet, have a decent machine-brewed latte, or purchase a freshly grilled hot dog, suited up in a flaky crusted bun. My go-to lunch on the road became frikkedella, the flavorful and delicious Danish meatball that is a mixture of pork and beef. My mom used to make them for extra special dinners growing up– the kind of dinners she’d also pull out my parents’ Royal Copenhagen collection for. There’s something oddly satisfying about eating one big fancy meatball out of a little paper bag. 

The ferry to Jutland was easy and comfortable. And fast. It took only about an hour once we were in motion to cross the sea and arrive in Aarhus. Just enough time to get settled and enjoy a small Americano from the nice little coffee shop and bakery on board. My fellow travelers were a mixture of elderly couples in hand knit nubby sweaters and young families with babies. All the young moms were understatedly beautiful and all seemed to be wearing long skirts and clogs. I didn’t notice many other single young or middle aged folks. 

The Baltic Sea from my seat on the ferry.

While on the ferry, the reality of my trip being underway set in. In the clean, comfortable space inside the humming ferry, I could feel myself softening physically, mentally, and emotionally into the experience: simple choices and mundane daily rituals had already transformed into discovery processes, layered with pleasurable newness. For example, purchasing a cup of coffee was no longer just a habitual morning routine, but an experience of exploration and negotiation. Do they have “black kaffe” here? Dear god...the pastries. All of them so texturally tempting with names that are hard to pronounce with confidence. 

“Sorry, I only speak English,” I’d said, with a small lump in my throat a few days prior, after a cherry-cheeked baker at Taffelebay offered some information to me in Danish. I asked her for her recommendation of pastry. She selected the cinnamon struedally-looking one with roasted almond slices all over it. On first bite, I discovered that it was gooeier than expected. I savored it as it melted on my tongue.

On the edge of revelation, and within the unknown is where I am most happy. Or at least, I am the version of myself that I most like to be. Perhaps more than I’d realized previously… I am at home because of this within the experience of traveling. 

Another thing that I love about travel: to be prepared with just what I might need on my person, the way an expert camper heading out into the wilderness packs lightly and precisely. Only, my personal packing precision provides for colorful accessories like watercolors, a journal, a truth-telling tarot card deck. And always an extra napkin and shout wipe. The pastries are even more buttery than you’d expect.

Waiting for my dinner reservation time on the terrace with a Tuborg and some watercolors.

In traveling, you decide every day what you need and what you don’t. You must make constant decisions about what you value most. To move through foreign spaces intuitively, self-directed and defined feels incredibly fresh. And having an abundance of time burns away the strain that I’d often felt in past travels. For the first time, the nagging, pressurized container of “a vacation” is gone. What remains is pure possibility and improvisation. 

I’d wanted to try something like this when I was only nineteen. My family traveled for a glorious vacation to St. Petersburg, Copenhagen and Stockholm at the end of summer. On the sunny harbor streets of Stockholm in August, I remember talking to a jewelry smith who ran a small independent school for artists. He was selling simple hammered silver shapes on thin leather necklace bands made my his students. I selected a spiral one, and felt electrified as I put it on. The man was middle aged, an immigrant himself from South America. Sensing my exuberance, he suggested that I should move to Stockholm and explore the scene, perhaps apprentice in the school. 

Feeling a flicker of bravery rising up in me, moments later I meekly proposed to my parents that I should perhaps take a gap year before returning to college and travel and work in Scandinavia. My timing and delivery was terrible. They almost laughed out loud. I was their youngest daughter and at that time they saw the worst in me. My teen years had not been gentle or kind, and I was left desperate to be accepted. They loved me, but they thought I was ill-prepared for the challenges of such an excursion. And, to be fair, I was. I was a coddled kid. This was before it was cool to claim bratitude.

With good intent, my parents were in a practice of enabling my helplessness– facilitating barriers and scaffolding around me with their privilege. Exerting control “for my own protection.” To be loosed on Scandinavia would mean they’d have to release me. I think they assumed that, given the opportunity, living on my own in a foreign place, I would be impetuous, end up doing something irresponsible, naughty. They openly expressed their concern that I’d get kidnapped– or worse. 

What they couldn’t see was that I was, at that time, ravenous for an opportunity to learn how to be a better version of myself. And I could feel somehow that travel would afford that to me, through the small, compounding moments of self-sufficiency. Getting on a train to a new place. Navigating foreign signage. Budgeting my days' time and coinage. Making friends with good souls who’d lived lives outside of my experiences. A practice of learning to trust and follow my gut. In this desire to travel, I see now that I didn’t just crave adventure and freedom: I wanted to take good care of myself.

I ended up doing a great many things as a young person that were against my parents’ hopes and wishes, but traveling solo in Scandinavia was not one of them. In a way, I am glad I didn’t go then. I couldn’t drive, for one thing, which, looking back, was more than a metaphorical issue. And my anxiety and depression were flaring badly at that time due to the fallout of a very damaging first serious romantic relationship. But now, here I am, almost twenty years later, brimming with the kind of comfort you can’t fake: bravery that comes from living boldly and knowing you will manage. Ease with all kinds of people, resourcefulness in any kind of situation. And, to top it all off, a keen ability to access joy and pleasure that comes from surviving and evolving through devastation.

I’ve lived circumstances my parents could have never predicted and couldn’t protect me from– including their own untimely, ravaging declines and deaths. From the life I’ve lived, I have my own special admixture of tools, tricks, and strengths that my late parents never could have envisioned. They gave me the taste for an international life, for which I am so grateful. I’m filled with peace and joy now to get to live out my own version, and to discover moments when I feel their encouraging presence. 

As I set out from the ferry, I felt like the me that I’d glimpsed all those years before when I suggested the gap year: a brave, happy woman, no longer a careless, rattled, and hungry-for-any-kind-of love teenager. Today, I am content, self-sufficient (and have extra napkins and shout wipes to go around), jetting across Denmark with watercolors in my purse and the wind in my hair. Getting just what I need from this life, and, when it feels right, eating a meatball out of a bag.

A reading from the truth-telling Slow Holler Tarot deck from Aalbaeck. The first card represents the past, and the second the future. In a traditional Tarot Deck, these cards are the Five of Cups and the Three of Wands.

Onwards from Shining Oslo

As a multidisciplinary artist and writer, the directional flow of my creative work shifts across mediums. Sometimes my narrative writing flows, other times painting or drawing flows, and sometimes it’s poetry or songwriting that flows. Right now, though, the flow I am most interested in is the flow of being present in my experiences. So, I am going to keep this relatively brief and take my time in catching up.

I’m writing this entry from Arlanda Airport in Stockholm, Sweden, after a little over a week exploring Stockholm and Gothenburg, by way of a short stop over on the island of Galtö. But before crossing over into Sweden, I spent a few sweet and bright final days in Oslo Norway, where the sunny streak continued. 

Oslo on the day I first arrived

A view from the top of the Munch Museum

In the airport, I hear the word "Oslo" over the loudspeaker and it hits me with endorphins like the squeeze of a strong hug from a loved one. Hearing the word or seeing it on signage now at a distance from the place fills me with warmth. It also somehow harkens to a deep, elemental memory: as a young child, laying in bed at my grandparents’ lakehouse, watching the light of the early morning sun on the lake dancing on the ceiling. I remember lingering in bed, my mind wheeling with stories and creative ideas in the delicious moments right after dreaming. The memory of this visual has always signified possibility, imagination, and feeling comfy and at home with myself. Now, I find that this memory feels connected to, and layered upon with different vantages of the light glimmering on Olso’s harbor waters.  

The first stays in Oslo were a marked by taking in museums-- the Munch Museum, which I found to be a bit overrated and wasteful, simultaneously autere and extravagant in terms of its design and layout, and the completely epic and wonderfu National Museum, where I could have moved in and spent weeks looking, drawing, and painting diverse objects from the collection and exhibitions. I took saunas, and enjoyed live music, leisurely meals and a couple of excellent cocktails out on the town. I also jetted by ferry to the nearest fjord island of Hovedølya for a sunny hike. On from there, I experienced time with family in Kongsberg, and my cross country train experience, as you can read about in previous entries.

One of the floating saunas in Oslo, facing the Opera and Munch Museum

One of the thousands of collection works on display at the National Museum

A ruin on the island of Hovedøya

My final few days in the Oslo were spent connecting with friends. Notably, a Norwegian-American woman named Andrea who is a few years older than me, whose parents were close with mine 30 years ago and whose brother was best friends with my oldest brother for some years. Her family moved to the suburbs of NYC in the early nineties and our families connected as odd duck international people. Our moms famously enjoyed cross country skiing together on a snow day when school was canceled. When I visited with the family, her mom laughed, recalling that as a Norwegian, she did not understand that school could possibly be canceled for a “snow day.” The designation was more than celebratory recognition of a giant snowfall, as she learned when she tried to drop her children off at the shuttered elementary school.  Our parents’ weekend dinners, in my memory, seemed to last all night and were full of boisterous laughter. 

Before my epic adventure in western and central Norway, I reconnected with the family when Andrea hosted me for a lovely traditional Norwegian dinner with her parents, brother, and some of their kids. Her mom made a traditional reindeer stew– a dish that was memorably delicious. The meat, unique– earthy and salty. The creamy base, bright and full of mushrooms and herbs. I’m only an occasional meat-eater, but I found myself craving reindeer stew with lingonberry as the days went by.

As we parted Andrea gifted me a ginormous chocolate bar of "Norway’s best chocolate," (a designation that I have to agree with) Freia Vollmilchschokolade, a treat that really added to my comfort in my travels across Norway.

After our dinner, Andrea extended an invite for me to stay with her family at their home on the edge of Holmenkollen in Oslo if I were to come back through the city in my travels. She added, “I’m not just being polite!” That did the trick. I am so glad that my plans included another swing through the city, and that I took her up on the offer. 

Staying with her and her family marked my third stay within Oslo. Select observations from the stay:

• Golden are the hosts who say “make yourself at home,” and mean it genuinely. Andrea and her husband are those people. They included me in family dinner, pancake breakfasts, and even showed me the candy stash. 

  
  

• All the Norwegians that I have been hosted by are the doting caretakers of very fluffy, stereotypically beautiful and friendly Norwegian cats. I’m amazed that I have no picture of sweet Evie the cat. 

  
  

• The home lattes that Andrea, her husband and eleven year old daughter made for me were some of the best I’ve ever had in my decades as a drinker of lattes. No exaggeration.

  
  

• The skiers who live in her neighborhood are pretty badass. I saw a few of them-- but first heard them-- swishing and scraping by on their rollerblade skis, training for ski season. 

  
  

• A wonderful part of getting older is to experience reconnection with people from previous phases in life. It’s a joy to discover, how, having lived vastly different lives, two people can come together as adults and share a special connection. Though I remembered her as an occasional babysitter, I’m delighted to now count Andrea as a friend. Some of our connection might have to do with a mutual fangirl fervor for the writings and research of Brené Brown (Stay awkward, brave and kind fo’ liiiife). Or maybe our mutual admiration for Brown just signifies our likenesses. Regardless, it was such a special treat to connect with this old friend who I feel like I’m just getting to know. 

Andrea and I on top of Homenkollen.

Andrea and her family made me feel so relaxed and at home and that comfort allowed me to dig into a few final adventures in the city within a very short time span. I took in the fabulous Ekebergparken Sculpture Park atop a mountain in the southwestern part of Oslo. I also spent a glorious afternoon at the Oslo Badstuforening Sauna— the most epic sauna I’d experienced up to that point. It is a collection of various constructions and styles of saunas, floating on a dock on the harbor with ladders into the water. One sauna even has a terrace on the roof, and a high jump, where I built upon my streak of brave jumps for a person who used to be scared of heights. I also walked to the U.S. Embassy, a short walk away from her house, and attempted to get some help with my absentee ballot for the upcoming U.S. Election. But that’s another story, and one that’s not all that fun to recount. No pun intended, there. 

Chloe by Jaume Plense

Drømmersken (Dreaming Woman) by Knut Steen

Before I left Oslo, Andrea and her husband took me to the top and ski jump at Holmenkollen, where I got to take in the breathtaking sight of the city and the fjords. As we hiked a short walk through the forest and looked down at the glittering water, they shared interesting tidbits of Norwegian history and culture with me. I learned that there’s an old Olympic bobsled track from the top of the mountain that one can sled down in the snow. I heard about a portrait of Norways’ Kong Olav, riding the tram to the mountaintop with the common people in order to go skiing. In fact, apparently a photo exists of the king with a random stranger who had fallen asleep on his shoulder. I learned about the preschool education of Andrea’s husband, which was at one of the forest schools that I noticed during my travels in Norway. There, without plastic dolls and legos, they learned to cultivate imaginative play and resourcefulness by playing outside. I also learned that in Norwegian, there are many words for “mountain,” kind of like the way Eskimos have a myriad of words for “snow.” 

The ski jump

Standing atop the mountain, my eyes welled up. For the first time in a long time, these weren’t tears of sadness, stress, or grief, but rather a rush of gratitude and upwelling of a kind of sentimentality, and of hope.

I was in part pulled to visit Norway because of my ancestor and namesake’s connection to the place. She chose Oslo as the city to start a new chapter in her life. I don’t know much about her time in Oslo except that she moved there to follow passionate love, had a family, and lived out her days as a person who shined as “her own woman.” And now, generations later, my relationship with this part of the world is only beginning. 

The view of the city and fjords from the mountaintop

What began for me as an extremely friendly and spontaneous invitation from my distant cousin to visit Kongsberg had turned into an epic adventure across several weeks and different cities and regions all over the southern part of the country— with the sun beaming along with me auspiciously just about the whole time. The more time I spent in Norway, the more rewarded I felt. Discoveries and stimulating synchronicities kept appearing around every mountain curve. And doors to new adventures were opening to me, some of which I could only glimpse through. But I was leaving with a sense that I will return. 

In one synchronistic turn of events, Andrea and her family were headed by car in the direction of Gothenburg, Sweden, my next destination, to Galtö, an island just over the border. They were heading there to close up the family cabin’s boats for the season. They kindly invited me to join them. 

I would have been transfixed by the family's fridge magnet collection as a child.

The word in Norwegian for kindred is “slekt,” and it feels appropriate for explaining how I felt in joining with the family for the start of their cozy cabin weekend. I can’t imagine a more comforting transition as I set out on the next leg of my journey. 

The young waffle entrepreneur/chefs.

The main cottage and sea inlet.

We arrived late in the afternoon, the low sun drenching the pine and birch forest and adjacent sea inlet in a gold and orange glow. Andrea’s kids and niece arrived the day before and had set up a waffle stand to welcome us. The girls only accepted pinecones as tender, which luckily, were abundantly available on the forest floor.

The art studio cottage.

Andrea’s lovely, witty mother in law put me up in the old art studio cottage on the property. After a rowboat tour around the harbor from my fabulous host, I spent the evening dining on delicious homemade lasagna, salad, bread, and wine together with the family. Their warmth put me at ease, and I felt comfortable in an even deeper way than before. After dinner, we ended the night with a kind of cozy adult crafting session, talking about differences between Norway and the U.S., with all the ladies multitasking at various art projects and grazing on licorice and chips. Using the little girls’ pencils and markers, I drew this picture from a photo taken earlier in the evening, which I left as a gift for the family to thank them for hosting me. 

The adventure continues. My tiny pinecone tender lingers in my coat pocket, still available to touch, as do these warm, fond memories of Norway.

We Are Our Best Choices

As I stood outside the lodge’s mountain-facing edge, it was clear that the fence was shuttered with a strap and lock. I walked towards the river, around the perimeter of the building, and I saw: an empty gravel lot. An emptied pool with mineral streaks. The rushing river. A large cardboard package sitting by the lodge front door. A bunch of skis leaned up next to the front door. A bare patio. Several other buildings that also looked… empty. 

To be fair, I had received a curious message late the night before after booking my stay– which I’d only noticed while sipping a coffee on my way to the train that morning.

Here is the entire and only message I received from the lodge after my booking: 

Dear Elisabeth,

Thank you for booking your stay with us in the beautiful mountains! 

Please note that our accommodation operates on a self-service basis during the off-season.

Here's how it works:

Check-in: Upon arrival, you will check in on your own. Detailed instructions will be sent to you closer to your stay.

Beddings: You will find all necessary beddings in a designated location within the accommodation. Feel free to make yourself comfortable!

Self-Cleaning: Before departure, we kindly ask that you clean up after yourself. Cleaning supplies will be available for your use.

If this arrangement doesn’t suit your preferences, no worries! You can cancel free of charge within 48 hours of booking.

If you have any questions, please feel free to reach out to us.

Wishing you a wonderful and relaxing stay!

Best regards,

Voss Mountain Lodge

As I walked around the side of the empty lodge and other buildings, it was clear that no one else was there. Thankfully, the wifi signals were robust, and the network was open. I double checked, and no other email message had come through with additional details. I called the number on the bottom of the email. 

Thankfully, a fairly nice guy named– you guessed it– Erik, answered my call.. 

Coming down from the adrenaline rush of my unexpected hike down the mountain to an empty lodge, I was still in a bit of a heightened state. This reaction solidified into actual shock when Erik confirmed that I was alone there with no staff, that he himself was hours away, and that I was the only guest booked for the night. There would be no food service, and definitely no dogs, no pool dips, lodge hall jam session or freshly baked bread. But I could let myself into a secondary building through the side door. And the sauna was there and could be turned on with a flashlight. 

As politely but directly as possible, I explained to Erik that no further instructions had been sent to me after my initial email. That based on the listing on booking.com– where there was no mention at all of this off season scenario— this situation was not meeting my expectations. I’d paid a rate for two nights for what I thought would be the full hostel experience, and I was frustrated with this turn of events. Also, I had only a bag of peanuts with me to eat.

As the sun was beginning to dip behind the mountains. I thought of my options. The river was my thinking soundtrack as I went through a kind of bargaining in my mind with with myself while pacing on the phone with Erik. I heard myself say out loud that I would stay the night, but would like to leave the next day, rather than stay by myself under the circumstances for two days and nights as planned. Erik apologized for the lack of clarity and communications, and agreed that it was fine for me to receive a refund for the second night. We then discussed logistics. He explained that there was a different, more established train stop up the road about two miles away which might be easier to reach tomorrow with my suitcase. There was also a self service grocery store kiosk about a two mile walk away. 

So, it was settled. I would stay at the hostel alone for the night. 

The smaller building where I was staying was like a summer camp facility that smelled like it had seen some life. The sign that greeted me when I walked in the unlocked side door said:

We Are Our Choices. 

- Jean-Paul Sartre.

I turned on the sauna right away, after dropping my things in my room. I grabbed the spartan linens– the only clean ones I could see in the linen room which was otherwise a heap of dirty and soiled towels and sheets. I drank a tall glass of water in the kitchen. I stood outside in the sun and laughed and stretched, and the river rushed on, while the sauna warmed. 

Eventually, I started to feel hungry. I set off walking down the gravel drive, onto the road that followed the river. For a while, I was alone, with mountains and severe-looking pine rock bluffs on both sides. I wondered if Norway really only had 65 bears, as I’d read somewhere. Then, coming around a bend in the road, I was surprised to encounter three teenagers. I stopped to chat with them. I learned that they were on a school trip from Bergen, staying in the same mountain valley close by to the lodge. They were punchy, tired, hungry and still had yet to produce an assigned poem about the nature that they were meant to be observing. They all spoke with British accents, as many Norwegians do, since their English education came from British English speakers. They all looked very urban, and were wearing minimal clothing for the brisk temperature. 

I told them I was a writer and could probably help them with their poem if they would tell me in which direction I could find the grocery kiosk. I realized I hadn’t written down the directions there, but rather only the directions to the second train station.  

They had no clue about the kiosk, but I enjoy writing assignments and they seemed stuck. I was also glad to be in the presence of other human beings. We stood together in the road as the sky darkened with slate gray clouds. It got colder. I asked them questions about what they’d seen and their states of mind while hiking. How did this place compare to their home? What was going on within this environment, according to their senses? I recorded the questions and answers with a voice memo on my phone. Then we played it back, pulling out compelling phrases like “the naked trees” and “blood red berries.” With a pen, I peppered some lines of their responses into what they’d already written, recommended some changes, and crossed out a few of the most hackneyed rhymes and phrases. The part where they used the words “pain” and “despair” in relation to their poetry assignment should probably be toned down, I suggested. I reminded them that it didn’t have to rhyme. They expressed their gratitude, and we went our separate ways with all of our hoods up. 

This encounter did not produce a great poem, but it was a good reminder: nothing had to suck. It was all just an experience. I wasn’t going to die from being alone and a little cold and hungry in the mountain lodge, just as they weren’t going to die from being forced to write a poem in the countryside.

I walked on and eventually found my way– with the help of a Norwegian dad camping by the river with his little girl– to the kiosk where I purchased frozen fish filets, a leek, carrots, yogurt, instant coffee, and British candy. By the grace of the mountain spirits, there was already a bottle of barely-touched Sauvignon Blanc waiting for me in the lodge kitchen fridge. 

I got back as night was falling. It fell fast. I ate some pre-dinner candy (I'm a grown ass woman, afterall, and I make the rules). I took another sauna session and when I emerged, the shadows had subsumed the light. The view from all the windows was suddenly just blackness. The lodge itself, a little too dark inside for my taste, with paltry old yellow lightbulbs. There was no lock to the lodge door on the inside, only a lock on my bedroom door. A long, empty hallway extended in two directions on either side of the kitchen. It seemed like an appropriately eerie setting for an ax murderer who really wanted to make an entrance. Or a troll. This was their territory, after all. I turned on soothing music and cooked myself dinner, choosing not to look right or left. 

I ended up crawling into my room shortly after eating, when the quiet and the dark became a little too much. I locked my door, and finished a glass of wine while I typed about my experience that day and messaged with friends who comforted me with jokes and a great Norwegian comedy video about cabin life. I wanted to work on other projects, but I was really cold. I’d attempted to fire up the heat in my room as night fell but as the hours went by, the temperature barely climbed. I got into bed with all my layers on. It got colder still. I put on my hat. I remembered that friction is best for conducting heat. Layers were needed. I lay my sweater over my core, and another sheet– the only extra clean linen I’d been able to find– under the duvet. 

Finally, as midnight neared, I was starting to feel restful and close to drifting off when a disturbance cut through the natural white noise of the river. Car wheels on the gravel outside. 

I heard sounds for the next twenty minutes or so as more than a couple people entered the lodge with stomping feet. They didn’t speak to each other much, but if they had it wouldn’t have mattered because I couldn’t understand their language and my heart was beating very loudly within my duvet cave. 

When I finally worked up the bravery to emerge from my fluff cocoon and from my room I met a few of the members of a group of travelers from Poland, who seemed exhausted from driving across Norway. Thankfully, I didn’t have to interact with them much before we all crashed in our respective rooms. 

The next day was significantly colder. Again, I started off with a sauna. It began to snow as I gathered myself for the next phase. 

Here is where I give a huge shout out to the secondhand warm wear I acquired at a thrift store in Oslo, when it was still 60 degrees and sunny. Three woolen knit items: Mittens, a hat that makes me look a bit like a gnome, and long socks that went over my knees were my mountain valley saving grace. At times, they allowed for comfort, and at other times, they kept me safe. 

I was ready to get out of there and back to Oslo, so I started my journey to the other nearby train station a bit early. The snow, which began daintily, picked up in intensity as I walked. I made it about 1.5 km up the road, wheeling my suitcase on the icy pavement like an urban traveler who had been accidentally teleported. I’m sure the trolls had a good laugh about it. I got to the bottom of the hill beneath the train. This road, running alongside an aquamarine river, was gravel and went up about 200 meters. At points, there were areas of clay and gravel where I could roll the wheels for a period. The rest of the time, I carried the case. 

By the time I got to the stop– this time, complete with a parking lot and a wooden platform– I was sweating. At the mountain top, the snow was falling in wet clumps, and the wind whipping. I’d walked there with purpose, quickly, and I realized upon arriving that my plan had a flaw: the train was due in 45 minutes. And now I was really, really cold and without a winter coat. 

Thankfully, Norway is a place where adventurers are welcome and provided for. Adventurers get sweaty and might need to strip and change by the time they reach the mountaintop. And of course, there’s often snow on the mountain. So, there was a warming room right next to the train with an electric heater already running, and a table and chairs. Also, a back room full of skis. Everyone skis in Norway, and apparently they all trust one another not to mess with theirs. Some kind of adventurer's code.

Part of me knows that I surely could have been tougher, lasted longer in my mountain stay. It hasn't always been the case, but I think of myself as someone who likes to be brave and challenged. There’s certainly something to be admired about one’s ability to deal with, or embrace the results of one’s choices, no matter how imperfectly they play out. It may have been rewarding to do so. The peace and isolation of the lodge’s location might have been ripe for a tranquil hike, or a fruitful writing or painting session, though it came with extra challenges and at least a few more essential hikes. But it's also ok to have preferences, to be able to discern between the kinds of adventures that feed your soul versus deplete your energy.

Sartre also said, The best work is not what is most difficult for you, it is what you do best.

I know myself. The compounding variables and uncomfortable surprises–like the prospect of wheeling my suitcase through inches of possible snow the next day without a proper coat and only rain boots– invoked the specter of stress. As a result, my sense of alert and reactivity was much more online than my creative self, or my open self. And once that balance has been tipped? Well, then it's a bit like asking a boulder (or a dense, heavy suitcase) to roll up a mountain. Or asking a troll to tea. There’s no amount of entreaty and softening of the experience that’s going to produce a desired result.

A Norwegian friend recently reflected to me that one of my strengths seems to be being in touch with my inner self. Sometimes that can be uncomfortable. Sometimes it means really noticing how I feel, not how I wish I could feel.

We each have a voice inside us that only carries if and when we're willing to embody what it is saying. That's probably where the phrase "in-tune with yourself" comes from.

Following instinct can mean recognizing miscalculations, moving away from circumstances, and moving on towards others. On the cold mountain's edge, to warm my body as the train came around the mountain, I hummed myself a melody: the sound of the feeling of sunny Oslo calling me back.